Krishna looks up from a small madiera with an expression of punchable unflappability, "what can I tell you about the new album? Well, I don't know. It's about fifty one minutes long," he chuckles, "my little joke!"
Here in his headquarters in Golders Green, ornamented richly with rarest jades and marbles, the man who likes to call himself Krishna cuts a paltry figure: five-eight, barely eight stone, unshaven for a month, sporting an Imperial shooting jacket and silk burgundy longyi, he pulls thoughtfully at a Gitane and defers to his accomplice, servant and familiar, Solomon Kirchner. "What do you reckon, Slomo? What's it all about, eh?"
"Memory, time and the loss it brings, the specificness of place - the genius loci, if you will."
"And I will," Krishna raises an irritating eyebrow and extends his glass.
"We were trying to escape from our past, but at the same time to reclaim it on our own terms. Escape that ghastly krautrock ghetto!" Kirchner closes his eyes, he patently can't bear to think of the place.
"Yes, that ghastly ghetto. That place did for Sally, didn't it?"
"Poor Mademoiselle Kitchener!"
"You should have seen her near the end. Desparate creature. Still, I think that was what she wanted. She and Luther were never very strong as far as that sort of thing goes. They were so easily led. So damned easily led. Still they lived fast, died young and left a good looking corpse."